


Always Mine, Always Yours

by questionsleftunanswered



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Clubbing, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 02:35:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionsleftunanswered/pseuds/questionsleftunanswered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has jealousy issues. John doesn't mind though, he knows who he belongs to. Meant to be paired with You Make Me Do This. This can be read independently, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Mine, Always Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Characters belong to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Sherlock was crowded in John’s personal space again. John though to talk to Sherlock about personal boundaries again, but this time he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Do you intend to answer me, John or shall I go interrogate him myself?” Sherlock demanded. 

“You can go ask him, but I promise you I didn’t touch him,” John said, meeting Sherlock’s eyes defiantly. They were out on a case at a bar in London; some trendy place that attracted crowds at least ten years younger than John or Sherlock. Sherlock had found their target within minutes of wandering in. They only stayed because John fancied a drink, some food, and the nostalgia of the month before his deployment that he spent time in places like this.

While Sherlock was off escorting the deplorable Mr. Coach to the waiting Yarders, John had taken a seat at the bar and called for a lager. A minute or so passed and a young man of about twenty came up.

He offered his hand, “Hello, mate. Name’s Geoff.”

“Hello,” John nodded, “John.”

“You here alone then?” Geoff asked.

“Nope, I’ve got my boyfriend around somewhere.”

“Crap boyfriend to leave you here alone.”

“Nope, he’s out talking to the Yard.”

“Bit of trouble then?” By now Geoff had taken a seat and was inching closer with every sip of his martini.

“Not really.”

Geoff downed the last of his drink and pressed against John, “Fancy a dance?”

John just smiled and shook his head. He went back to his lager and hoped the chap would bugger off. No such luck.

Geoff spun John’s stool around to face him. He straddled John’s hips and began rotating them in time to the omnipresent bass, “You sure? I’d love to dance with you.”

John had just grabbed the younger man’s hips to push him off when Sherlock walked in. Bringing them to the present problem.

Sherlock sauntered off in the direction of the unfortunate Geoff. John watched from the bar as Sherlock interrogated the poor kid and then undoubtedly threatened him in the most grotesque way imaginable.

Geoff’s face went from mild amusement to pure horror as he gave John a frightened glance and made a b-line for the exit.

Sherlock returned and gave John a triumphant smile.

“Lovely chap,” He said, taking the seat that Geoff had occupied moments ago, “He fancied you.”

John met Sherlock’s smile and shook his head, “You didn’t have to threaten him into leaving the bar you know.”

“I didn’t threaten him with the goal of him leaving the bar. I merely told him that you were already in a relationship.”

"I’m sure that’s all you said to him.”

“I may have also mentioned my previous experiment with that cadaver Molly gave me the other day and how successful it was.”

“Ah. That’s why he looked so terrified.”

“No, not at all. That look was given when I asked him how fast he though his bone marrow would last when soaked in vinegar and cooled to exactly 3 degrees Celsius.”

“You’re bloody awful, Sherlock.”

Sherlock at least had the decency to look affronted, though John knew he was proud of himself.

“Do you care to dance with me, John?” Sherlock asked.

“I didn’t know you danced.”

Sherlock took John’s hand and pulled him to the floor. They seemed out of place amongst the moving bodies of the much younger generation. Sherlock didn’t seem to care.

John then realized that it had been longer than he thought since he had been to a club like this. Sherlock, of course, blended right in. He spun his hips and twisted in perfect time to the music, leaving John a bit breathless beside him. Sherlock took hold of John’s hips and pressed his own against them, pulling John into his movements.

They danced like that for what seemed to John like an eternity; pressed close, hot, and relentless.

Finally Sherlock said, “John, a break would be ideal.”

John obliged, silently relived at the reprieve. They both reclaimed their vacant seats at the bar and had another drink each.

“Do you want to go home?” John asked, hoping for a yes.

“Only if we continue,” Sherlock said, tossing back the last of his drink and dramatically slamming the glass back on the counter.

“Of course we’ll continue,” John smiled.

“Fine then.”

They both stood and made their way out into the brisk of the night time air. Bundling his coat and scarf around himself, Sherlock tossed his hand, instantly summoning a cab. He and John piled in as the cabbie turned around towards Baker Street.

The cab ride was silent and strained; both were trying to not touch the other. Sherlock gave in and slid closer to John, resting hip to hip. He reached his hand over, and without showing any reaction that the cabbie might notice, began stroking John’s length through his trousers.

John sucked in a breath and sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. His hands curled into tight fists and he focused his eyes out the window.

Sherlock never ceased his hand’s steady pumping and John’s face flushed. It was getting increasingly difficult for John to contain himself. Sherlock, however, was still placid and blank. To him, it could have been just another cab ride home.

As they reached Baker Street, John brushed Sherlock’s hand aside. He may be flushed, but he wasn’t going to come in his pants, especially in the back of a cab.

Sherlock paid and they were both in the front door as quickly as possible. Sherlock called for Mrs. Hudson and received only silence in return, she had made good on her decision to go to the shops tonight.

Sherlock calmly went up the stairs and into the kitchen. John was already by the couch, ripping off his clothing in needy haste.

“Tea, John?” Sherlock asked.

“No, thanks,” John replied, confused.

“Fine,” Sherlock put the kettle on and walked over to John. He has stripped down to his pants and his erection was clear through the thin fabric.

Confused and a bit put off, John stood before Sherlock, waiting for his to remove his clothing as well.

Sherlock met John’s eyes. The need and carnal desire he saw there crumbled his patience.

Sherlock pressed John back into the couch, straddling his hips and claiming his mouth. John was surprised with the veracity with which Sherlock kissed him. The last time Sherlock kissed him like this, they had both been in St. Bart’s and wearing hospital gowns.

Sherlock tossed his clothing off, leaving them both in just their pants. Sherlock abruptly stood and wordlessly pulled John to their bedroom, formerly Sherlock’s room.

Spread out on the bed, John was always able to find new ways to produce the most exquisite sounds from Sherlock.

This time, Sherlock looked up as John crawled over him.

“Can we do something new?” Sherlock asked, knowing John would agree to anything he wanted.

“Anything. I will do anything you want.” John said, kissing his way up Sherlock’s chest and nipping at his left nipple.

“Than stop,” Sherlock ordered.

John froze and looked up questioningly.

Sherlock smiled, pleased with John’s immediate response. He ran his fingers through John’s sandy hair and tugged hard, harder than necessary.

A gasp escaped John as his head was jerked backwards. “ _Sherlock_.”

Sherlock only gave John a slick grin, he loved this: his power over John. He equally loved John’s power over him, but this was not the night to play weak. John was his and Sherlock was going to brand him as such.

“Get off of me, John.” Sherlock ordered.

John quickly clambered off of Sherlock, still confused but also hurt. He sat on the right side of the bed, not even touching Sherlock.

“Did I do something?” John asked tentatively?

“You do everything,” Sherlock replied. He kneeled beside John, his erection jutting out from his body.

John looked up at him, knowing what was coming next, needing what was coming next.

“Suck me,” Sherlock said.

John eagerly went to Sherlock, wrapping his hand around the root and taking the head into his mouth. John sucked greedily. His fingers wrapped around to grasp Sherlock’s arse and take his cock deeper.

Sherlock looked down, watched his length disappear inside the wet heat and suction of John’s experienced mouth. Sherlock tightened his grip in John’s hair and received a shuddering moan from the shorter man.

John loved this: the heaviness of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, the sounds that Sherlock was failing to hold back, the fact that he was the one to drive Sherlock mad.

Sherlock used his hold in John’s hair to hold him steady, fucking his mouth. John went pliant under Sherlock’s touch, allowing himself to be used. Sherlock could feel the head of his cock reaching the back of John’s throat. John took it, he took all of it. Sherlock knew John wanted this; knew that John enjoyed having his hair pulled and his face fucked. John craved the order, the direction.

Sherlock pulled John back and withdrew his length. He reached to their bedside table and produced the small bottle of lube that was always a convenient arm’s length away.

Sherlock popped the cap and slicked up two fingers. He bent down to kiss John, hard.

“Turn around and bend over for me,” Sherlock said.

John did as he was told, resting down on his elbows on the pillows as Sherlock moved around behind him. Then, without warning, Sherlock pushed his long digits fully inside of John. Without waiting for John to adjust or even register a reaction, Sherlock was pulling them out again. In and out, in and out, Sherlock teased the terribly sensitive knot of nerves within John.

John was leaking profusely onto the sheets and rocking himself back, fucking himself on Sherlock’s fingers. There were three now, and John loved the stretch and the feeling of being so full.

“Please, Sherlock.” John said, not wanting to come before Sherlock was inside of him.

“What’s that?” Sherlock’s deep baritone rumbled back. Sherlock knew exactly what his voice did to John and used it to his every advantage.

“ _Fuck me_.”

“Hm? Are you sure you want me and not the wanker who you let straddle you?”

John quirked his head to the side to look at Sherlock, “Never. You, only you, always you.”

Sherlock smiled at this, John was his. It was very good that John knew it. He leaned over and pressed bites and kisses across john’s shoulder blades.

“Ask me again, John. Tell me what you want.”

“Fuck me, Sherlock. Please. God, I won’t even look at another man. I’m yours.”

Sherlock was already spreading lube across his length, there was no need of a condom, they had been together long enough and were both clean.

This time, Sherlock went slower. He eased himself past the initial resistance and kept steadily pushing in until he was sheathed entirely inside of John.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, John,” Sherlock breathed, waiting before beginning to thrust.

The room was quickly filled with the slap of skin against skin, every muscle in both of their bodies pulled taut. Sherlock reached around and wrapped his hand around John’s length. He pumped his hand in concert with his thrusts. Sherlock was now aiming carefully to his John’s prostate directly, wanting him to come.

“Sherlock, I’m so close,” John managed. His breathing was ragged and his skin painted with a thin sheen.

Sherlock could feel John’s body about to come, so he bit the soft skin at the nape of John’s neck, a secretly sensitive spot he had found during their thirds romp under the covers.

John came hard, three streaks landing in their bed, the rest dribbling out over Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock let John go and brought his fingers to his lips. He came with the taste of John’s release on his tongue.

Afterwards, they both lay collapsed in the sheets. John’s focus was solely on the lazy circles that Sherlock was drawing into his thigh. After a bit of concentration, John realized something.

“Sherlock? Are you writing in…Gallifreyan on my leg?” He asked.

John could feel the chuckle in Sherlock’s chest and knew the answer before it was given.

“Certainly,” Sherlock said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Why?”

“Because you enjoy the show, I enjoy you, and the silly little circles were stuck in my head.”

That was a good enough reason for John.

They spent hours like this; lying together in comfortable silence and ignoring the cacophony of London that was just beyond their front door. 

John was comforted to know that he was wanted, owned, by Sherlock.


End file.
